


Without Thought, Without Care

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [4]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut, fuckruary2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: When Lucifer bought Chloe this dress he hadn’t imagined she’d even agree to wear it, let alone that she would dothiswith it. Nor did he foresee that she would bodily drag him out of Lux and into the elevator, not that he’s complaining.Full of surprises, his detective is.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 18
Kudos: 241





	Without Thought, Without Care

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4! Prompt: Stripping/Grinding
> 
> Thanks to [MoanDiary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoanDiary/pseuds/MoanDiary) for all her beta help!

Chloe brings her hands down from her loosening hair and trails her fingertips down the line of her jaw, past the hollow of her throat. She inches over her collarbone and onto silky, black material, cupping her own breasts and arching into the context.

“Do you want to touch me here?” she asks, like she’s only now noticed that she’s not alone.

Lucifer swallows dryly, wavering on the spot. ”Yes,” he rasps. When he bought her this dress he hadn’t imagined she’d even agree to wear it, let alone that she would do  _ this _ with it. Nor did he foresee that she would bodily drag him out of Lux and into the elevator, not that he’s complaining. Full of surprises, his detective is.

Her eyebrows pull together for a moment, and she worries at her lip, but then her expression smooths over, and she reaches behind her back to unfasten the scrap of fabric that’s the only thing holding up the halter dress. It slides down and bunches at her waist, and his eyes flit restlessly between the line of fabric inching toward her hips and the blood-red lace that clings delicately to her breasts.

He licks his lips and takes a halting step forward, but she shakes her head sharply, golden tresses falling from her shoulders.

He stops, frozen, now, by the intensity of her gaze as she lets the silk slide down to her hips, as provocatively wrapped as a saint in a Renaissance painting, caught in holy ecstasy. Her lip curls up, most likely from the wrecked expression that must paint his face, but he can’t care as his gaze burns back down her body to watch her fingers tense and release.

And then the dress falls to the floor, pooling as the darkness between stars around her midnight heels, and he stops thinking entirely.

The bits of scarlet lace that barely hide her most beautiful, secret places are the only thing she’s wearing now, and her fingernails dig gently into the soft edges of her own hipbones as she asks him, “And do you want to touch me  _ here?” _

_ “Please,” _ he breathes—without thought, without care—with nothing but ardent certainty, though he knows just as well he will not move from this spot until she commands him.

But she is ever so merciful and merely whispers, “Come here.”

If there was time between her words and her skin—so hot as to be feverish—under his hands, it’s lost in the way she murmurs her pleasure into his ear when he finds her hips, her breasts, and then her lips, as ripe as any forbidden fruit, but sweeter still for her exquisite wantonness.

His suit is beyond constraining, and he is denied the contact he desires, but his hands have far better things to do than unbutton shirts and unfasten belts. He has abandoned her lips to hear her pant against his throat as one hand parts lace to caress a peaked nipple and the other trails over her hip to press where she is already so very warm.

“Lucifer,” she gasps, and he noses against her hair, down to her ear to moan.

She’s hardly touched him yet—though she clings to him, arms tight around his shoulder and waist for support—but her nearness alone makes him groan and hiss and buck against air. He’s shaking, and there’s such weakness in it, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the gentle brushes of her belly and thighs painting heat within him even through the layers of fabric.

He finds the edge of her underwear and carefully pulls it down her thighs until it falls to pool with her dress, and there he finds such exquisite heat his breath shudders out of him. Her clit is hot and throbbing, and he presses his thumb to it in a rhythm not quite as slow as he intends. His other hand finds her shoulder straps and takes them down, unclasps her bra, and lets it fall to the marble. He kneads at her breast, and she sighs, pressing closer, hands coming up to tangle in his hair.

This is an awkward position—standing in the middle of his living room with nothing to support them—but he’ll be damned if he moves from this spot when she’s keening softly in his ear, her inner muscles tensing around his fingers when he slips two inside. She’s so ready that they slide in easily, and her back arches. His other hand abandons her breasts to hold her up as she gives in to the sensation, hips bucking against his hand.

His pulse is hard and insistent inside his uncomfortably tight trousers, but he ignores his own need to twist his fingers, find that roughened spot inside that makes her cry out, and press the pads of his fingertips against it while his thumb stays steady on her clit. She won’t last like this, but he’s not trying to tease her, only wants her to feel as much pleasure as possible. The muscles of her back tense under his other hand, and he presses kisses to her cheek, her lips, her chin, his mouth trailing down between her breasts.

He pants against her skin for a moment as he teases her shallowly with a third finger, returning to two to increase the speed of his thrusts, thumb rubbing circles faster and faster. When she chokes on a breath, he fastens his mouth first to one nipple, then the other, sucking the sweetness of sweat from her skin, matching the rhythm of his tongue to his fingers. She is so close that he can feel even her desire in the pit of his stomach, knows exactly what she needs to crest that edge as clearly as if it were written in the stars.

But it’s more mundane than that—more precious, more holy—and he slips to his knees, one hand still supporting her, the other finding a new, more potent angle to grant room for his tongue to descend upon her clit, sweeping up the sides before he takes her into his mouth and begins to suck. She tastes of salt and musk, and nothing like heaven, and it’s as beautiful as it always is when he’s allowed this, heady enough he might be high on something purer than any drug. Her thighs shake, her hands tighten almost painfully in his hair, and she grinds against his face so hard he can barely breathe.

But nothing matters but her pleasure, and he redoubles his mouth’s effort, his fingers’, beating a sweet tattoo over her clit, reaching deeper within her, as filling as he can manage. She clenches around him, and she’s so close, her pulse thready against his tongue. Almost there, almost  _ there, _ and he withdraws his fingers, hauls one of her legs over his shoulder, and buries his face in her wetness.

He soaks up her release, holding her through her peak as she clenches and thrashes and scratches his scalp, licking her through the aftershocks. When he finally emerges, his face is dripping, and he feels as languid and loose-limbed as though he found his own ecstasy, though his arousal is unflagging. His suit jacket and collar are almost certainly ruined, and he couldn’t give less of a damn.

He drags himself up her body, for his own pleasure but also to extend hers. She grabs his face and pulls him back down, drawing him into a deep kiss that ends with her taking his hand and leading him unsteadily up to the bedroom. She turns him around and pushes him onto the bed, and he goes willingly, wondering what she’s planning next.

She straddles him, grinding against his trousers. He marks them off as another loss, though they’re hardly the first pair sacrificed to someone else’s pleasure. Or his own, for that matter. There’s always something affecting about being clothed whilst his partner is naked; his suit is his armor, after all, but she can disarm him with less than a glance. No matter how many times she touches him, it’s like the first time anyone ever has.

He palms her breasts and bucks his hips, falling into her rhythm, trying to impart upon her the joy he feels in his heart for her, and she keens, throwing her head back, still seemingly sensitive from her orgasm. When he presses a hand to her lower back to improve contact, she freezes, clawing at his chest hard enough to pull a button on his shirt loose.

“Too fast,” she mutters, worrying at her lip again. “C-can we just… for a second.”

“Of course, love,” he says softly and wraps his arms lightly around her. As he runs his fingers through her hair to smooth it out, he realizes that perhaps she didn’t drag him out of Lux solely because she wanted to throw him on his bed and have her wicked way with him. It’s been well over a year since he returned, since they began this thing they have between them, but it’s still somewhat tentative. Still darting and uncertain and new.

Tonight was something of a milestone—they have often defaulted to Chloe’s house for the evening or else immediately gone up to Lux. Tonight, then, was intended to bring her fully into his earthly world. Some part of him wants to run to Linda, to ask her what all this means, but Chloe deserves to have him present, even if he doesn’t always know what to say.

He turns them, pulling her down to lie next to him on the bed. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, and he brushes her hair behind her ear. “Darling,” he whispers, “is something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “I’m just tired.” Her eyes flutter shut, and her brows pull together.

He could drop the issue, let it lie until morning, or longer. But he doesn’t know if he’ll be brave enough to bring it back up. The last thing he wants is for her to feel left alone with her troubles. “I know my world can be hard for you to deal with,” he says eventually. Even as he says it, he understands what it truly means. The dancing, the dress, the glamor… it’s all tied into everything  _ else _ he is—feathers, fire, and blood.

She huffs out a breath and shivers. The blanket, he realizes as he gropes behind his back, is too far away to reach, and he pulls away from her, preparing to rise. 

“Don’t!” she says, too loud and too intense for this moment, and he can see clearly the fear that lurks in her suddenly too-wide eyes.

“I’m not going to leave you again,” he tells her softly. “My  _ world _ is not going to take me away again.”

“You don’t know that,” she says quietly, staring at the sheets.

“No,” he admits. “No one knows the future, except, maybe, my Father, and  _ He’s _ certainly not telling.”

Her laugh is a small and tentative thing, but it hangs in the air like sunlight and brings words to his lips.

“You know, there are many rivers in Hell—pyroclastic lava flows, caustic swamps, streams of poison and acid and death—but there is one the demons fear above all others. It’s small, wending its way through the seemingly endless corridors of doors, and thick clouds drift over its surface. I used to sit on its banks and watch the current ripple.”

She frowns. “Why are you telling me this?” Her confusion isn’t surprising; he rarely mentions Hell even now except as a cheap joke. It is better, he usually finds, to not bring it up at all.

But he feels compelled tonight and answers her question with another. “Have you heard of the Lethe?”

She blinks. “Maybe once in middle school.”

“It’s the river of oblivion. Anyone who drinks from it forgets who they are, what they’ve done. And I…” He takes a deep breath.  _ Be honest with her, _ Linda’s voice says in his ear. “Sometimes, I believed it would be better to just forget.”

“Lucifer…”

He takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles. “I don’t lie, so I can’t truly say that I’ll never have to go back. But if I do, I promise you, I will  _ never  _ let myself forget you. No matter how slowly the years pass, no matter how far into the light you climb or how far into darkness I fall, I will always have you. And... you will always have me.”

She exhales slowly, and everything in him wants to run—it’s how he survived for so very long down in the dark—but he’ll make himself stay for her. He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go of her hand. For her he will give up what control he has left; she can decide whether she wants to leave. Whether she wants to turn away and pretend to sleep. Whether she wants to lose herself in his body again. He can still taste her, sharp and musky and so much warmer than Lethe waters.

Her fingers twitch, her hands tightening around his, and she leans up to press her mouth to his. “I won’t forget you,” she says quietly, then louder, “I won’t forget you.”

She sits up and pushes him into the mattress, straddling him again, but slowly, deliberately. And she is no saint in chiaroscuro as she opens his shirt, pressing kisses over his heart. She is not painted in light and shadow when she unbuckles his belt, but in warm earth tones as she shoves his trousers down. She is  _ La Maja Desnuda, _ watching him without shame as she takes him in hand. She is  _ L’Origine du Monde, _ stretch marks painting the curve of her belly and her thighs as she grinds down onto him and moans.

And, most importantly, she is Chloe Decker—blue eyes that turn to green in the right light, blonde hair with darker roots shining through. She is the freckles by her hip that he counts as the stars and the scar on her shoulder he paints only with tenderness. She is a woman of logic, with a strength that baffles and amazes him and a goodness that makes him want to  _ try. _ She is his, and he is hers.

How could anything else matter?


End file.
